EPISODE 17
THRONELIGHT

Year 376...
Empire of Wemont...
Capital, Therasus...
Crown Candidate Royal Castle...

Day One of the Crown Accession Rite

The great marble main hall of the Royal Palace stood adorned in obsidian velvet and blood-red drapery, the banners of the empire fluttering with solemn pride. Murmured prayers to the gods echoed faintly from robed heralds lining the corners of the chamber, their presence a reminder that this event was not merely of politics—but of fate.

Crown Princess Sterlla stood tall, her ceremonial robes trimmed in blue-silver, eyes steady but laced with fatigue from the night before. Flanked by Simore and Sigel, the full entourage of the Xiones family stood with composed grace. Adena stood just a step behind her, alert, her palms clasped neatly behind her armored waist. The Feifer family had arrived moments ago, their solemnity matched only by the grandeur they brought. The Zywan family had taken their place in the right wing, radiating the confidence of old power.

One by one, the remaining crown candidates filtered in, dressed in their respective house colors, the weight of ambition veiled behind civil smiles.

A blur of pink and gold silk raced across the hall. Without ceremony, Crown Princess Lionella threw herself into Sterlla’s arms, her high-heeled boots clattering against the black marble floor. “Sweet friend,” she gasped, hugging Sterlla from behind and burying her face into her shoulder like a child returning home. “Why must you always find yourself in chaos? I swear, I cannot leave you alone for a moment.”

Sterlla chuckled softly, her hand moving to gently pat Lionella’s head, brushing back her glossy curls. “Ah, the infamous Crown Princess Lionella,” she said, teasingly affectionate.

Lionella released the hug with a dramatic pout, crossing her arms. “You’re the Crown Princess!”

“You are a candidate for the crown, my dear,” Sterlla replied with a glint in her eyes, lifting a brow.

Lionella gave a theatrical huff. “Only because you begged me to!”

“I asked you,” Sterlla corrected, smirking, “because you are worthy of the crown.”

But the moment of warmth between the friends cracked like delicate glass when a third voice sliced through the air—honeyed, slow, and steeped in condescension.

“Oh, those are brave words indeed, Crown Princess Sterlla.”

The two women turned. The woman of imposing beauty they were so familiar with glided toward them. Her black lace fan flicked open with a practiced snap. Frina Vinford. Her presence alone summoned tension, the way a predator's silence preceded a pounce.

“Good morning to you, Lady Frina,” Lionella said through a clenched jaw, her body bowing into a shallow courtesy laced with reluctance.

Frina returned the courtesy with equal artificial grace. Sterlla offered only a subtle dip of her head—enough to remain proper, not enough to be deferential. Frina’s crimson-painted lips curved upward as she scanned both women.

“I do believe we are all quite capable of seizing the crown,” she purred. “Wouldn’t you agree?”

Sterlla’s response was soft but unshakable. “Indeed. Yet only one shall be chosen.”

Frina's gaze narrowed slightly before Lionella chimed in, her tone a perfect blend of sugar and venom. “The one who is worthy.”

Before the tension could tighten any further, the thunderous call of a ceremonial horn resounded across the main hall. A booming voice followed, echoing off the towering ceilings:

“All candidates, present yourselves at the Grand Balcony and announce your names to the Empire!”

The horns rang again, a solemn rhythm that declared the dawn of destiny.

Heavy boots soon echoed in unison, their steps not brutish but precisely disciplined. The Xiones Demon Army had entered, clad in royal blue and gold, their obsidian helmets crested with silver etchings of fanged beasts. At their head marched Commander Linone, upright and unwavering. He stopped a few paces before the assembled candidates, his gloved hands behind his back.

“All candidates, please follow us,” he said, his voice sharp and commanding.

His eyes met Sterlla’s for a brief moment—and softened. She returned his gaze with a gentle smile. A faint flush touched his ears. He cleared his throat, looking away quickly, the back of his neck stiff with effort not to react.

Sterlla bit down a soft giggle, amused by his flustered demeanor.

Just then, Frina leaned in. Her voice slithered against Sterlla’s ear like silk soaked in venom. “Flirting with the Commander, Crown Princess?”

Without turning, Sterlla replied in a whisper dipped in honey. “Whatever pleases your heart, Lady Frina.”

Frina offered a brittle smile, but her thoughts turned cold. How everyone gravitates to her… like bees to spoiled nectar. Her gaze shifted from Sterlla to the figure standing apart—Sigel.

The Crown Princess Sigel Xiones stood still, her gown regal and untouched, her face impassive. But her eyes—those storm-filled green eyes—burned holes into Sterlla’s back. Where others saw dignity, Frina saw the truth. She saw hatred. She saw spite.

And in that moment, her lips twitched, just slightly.

I found my pawn.

Her fan snapped shut with a muted crack as she fell in line, her mind already weaving schemes of shadow.

The massive doors of the palace creaked open under the weight of age-old enchantments, revealing the ancient Grand Balcony of Judgment—an arched marble structure veiled in dark silks and glowing with sigils that shimmered faintly under the morning light. A chill wind brushed past, whispering the promises of power, and the murmurs of a restless empire echoed far below.

As the royal procession stepped forward, boots striking the obsidian-tiled floor in solemn rhythm, the people of Wemont—thousands of them—stretched across the stone plaza and surrounding terraces, their eyes turned upward toward the imperial heights. Draped in mourning black, ceremonial gold, and war-born silvers, nobles and commoners alike stood together, their breath held, waiting.

Then, the horn sounded—a piercing, deep-toned instrument carved from the bone of the first imperial beast—and its cry shivered through the skies.

Stepping to the forefront, hands planted firmly upon the dragon-carved rail, stood Emperor Serox Xiones.

His shadow fell long over the crowd, his presence magnetic, the sheer weight of centuries staring from the eyes of the man who had once stilled civil wars and carved peace with blood and wisdom. Clad in full ceremonial armor of blackened obsidian etched with imperial runes, the emperor raised his hand.

The entire plaza fell deathly silent.

When he spoke, his voice carried like thunder laced with velvet—measured, ancient, and absolute.

“Welcome, beloved citizens of Wemont.”

The roar that erupted was deafening. Cries of Long live the Flame of Xiones! filled the air, fists raised in unity, and some wept from mere awe. But once more Serox lifted his hand, and like magic, silence reigned again.

He returned his hand to the stone, fingers curling against cold marble.

“The one who shall lead you through famine and fire, the one whose soul shall bind to the will of this empire—be it man or woman—shall soon rise from among you. One shall prove worthy to bear your hopes, your sorrow, your rage, and your triumph. And I,” he paused, “shall guide them before I step into the shadows.”

A second cheer burst forth, reverberating between the palace columns, and with that, the Emperor stepped back, his iron cloak billowing behind him.

The horn sounded again, and Simore Xiones, the Firstborn of the House, took the platform.

The crowd stirred in delight.

Simore, young and radiant, his princely robes in hues of smoldering orange and deepest scarlet, stood at the edge of the railing. He gripped it gently with both gloved hands, leaning forward just enough to meet the eyes of those farthest away. The firelight embroidered into his cuffs seemed to glow faintly, as if his very aura hummed with embered energy.

He smiled boyishly, raising a single finger to his lips—a quiet command. The crowd obeyed with giggles and flushed cheeks, enchanted by his charm.

Then, in a low and resolute voice, he declared:

“Simore Xiones. Holder of the Orange spirit light, wielder of the Element of Fire. I stand before you not as a prince—but as a servant to this realm. And with this heart,” he lifted a hand and placed it diagonally over his chest, “I vow to preserve the might of this empire. May we burn brighter still—unconsumed by the darkness.”

As he stepped back, a flash of fire sparked from the tips of his boots, curling around him in a protective wreath before extinguishing into smoke. The people erupted into thunderous applause.

Then the wind shifted.

She walked forward next—Sterlla Xiones, the Crown Princess.

The crowd's reaction was instantaneous. The storm of cheering dwarfed all that had come before it. People screamed her name. Children on rooftops held out banners. Her presence was myth incarnate.

Her gown, a masterwork of blue velvet and flowing amethyst, shimmered with threads of violet flame. Her arms stretched outward—palms facing skyward in a grand, open gesture.

“Why,” she called, her voice calm but striking like lightning, “we all look quite beautiful today, don’t we?”

The crowd howled with laughter and applause, some banging drums or stomping feet. She let them bask in that shared joy, then brought her hands together—tight fists clenched in front of her chest. Silence fell instantly.

“I am Sterlla Xiones, bearer of the Purple Spirit Light—the power of the Dragon’s Curse,” she declared.

As if summoned by name, twin serpentine dragons of spectral violet energy spiraled into the air behind her. Their translucent wings roared above the balcony, one circling her head, the other coiling protectively behind her shoulders. The crowd gasped, many falling to their knees in awe.

“To this empire, to its people, I offer my oath. Let the winds howl. Let darkness rise. We shall stand—we shall choose not merely a crown, but the one most deserving to bear it.”

The dragons shimmered, fading into ash and stardust. She drew her hands down in a fluid, ceremonial motion, clasping them gracefully before her. As she stepped back, the applause surged like a rising tide. The earth beneath the palace trembled with the force of their devotion.

And then came Sigel Xiones.

Sweet-faced and silver-tongued, she walked forward with practiced serenity. Her pale pink robes fluttered with every step like petals on the wind. Her smile was delicate, warm, and perfect. A mask of compassion.

The people sighed as she approached, captivated by her beauty, bewitched by her charm.

With a playful wink, she raised her hands skyward.

A hush fell.

“I, Sigel Xiones, a daughter of this soil, a soul no different from any of yours—stand here today,” she began softly.

From her fingertips, enchanted petals in every shade of pink burst forth, floating gently into the breeze, cascading down upon the people like a spring blessing.

“I hold the Pink spirit Light, the power of Flora’s Grace. I vow to nurture this empire and tend to its wounds. Peace, like a garden, must be watered with care.”

She dipped into a demure courtesy, and her magic dispersed—petals vanishing into delicate sparkles.

The audience, enraptured, applauded reverently, their cheers gentler than those for Sterlla, but no less sincere.

She stepped back slowly, satisfaction blooming in her eyes.

And then came Orion Feifer.

He walked with deliberate grace, his cloak of silver-threaded silk rippling behind him like waves in a midnight sea. His skin was darker than those of Wemont, kissed by the eastern sun, and his hair flowed in braided cords tipped with crystal bands that chimed softly with each step. His eyes—luminous and solemn—scanned the gathered masses, and when he smiled, it was not with arrogance but with quiet understanding.

A foreigner by birth, yet a brother by deed.

He stepped up to the center dais, laying one hand on the ancient rail. The moment his boots struck the polished obsidian platform, a ripple of whispers broke the quiet. But as soon as he opened his mouth, a reverent hush returned.

“I am Orion Feifer,” he said, his voice a melodic baritone, crisp with command yet smooth as flowing ink. “To those who know, I am honoured. And to those who don’t—well, you know now.”

His smile flickered again, not one of mischief, but of gravity and grace. The crowd leaned closer, the twilight wind holding its breath.

“I hail from the land of the East—born where the mountains bleed silver and the rivers sing lullabies. To see me here, among you, some of you may be confused... some, perhaps, even annoyed.”

He paused. Not to falter—but to let the weight of his next words drop like gold coins on marble.

“But believe me when I say this—I am no different than any man who stands here with a heart that beats for your future. The love between humans shall not be divided by borders or bloodlines. Is that not so?”

A murmur of agreement rose, rolling like gentle thunder.

“And so today, I, Orion Feifer, holder of the Light of Moon—the power to make surrender—pledge my oath to this empire and swear to be a man of its kind. Let us forge a beautiful future—together.”

As the final word left his lips, a radiant flash of silver light exploded around him. Ethereal, cold, and pure, it shimmered like frost catching starlight. Sweet, melancholic symphonies began to play, drifting from the enchanted horns of the unseen Royal Ensemble. The notes wrapped around every listener like a soft oath of peace.

When Orion stepped back, the light dimmed and the music dissolved into silence. Then came roaring applause, cheers bursting like fireworks from the throats of the masses.

But the stillness did not last.

Now came Lionella.

With a powerful exhale, she strode to the edge of the balcony—her gold cape flowing behind her like dragon's fire, her heeled boots clacking with fury and elegance upon the obsidian. Her gaze was a storm, and her hair was braided into a crown laced with rubies and threaded beads. She raised her hand, placed it firmly on the rail, and shouted with the force of a war drum.

“LONG LIVE THE EMPIRE OF WEMONT!”

Her voice rang through the day like a battle cry. The people below responded in kind—shouting, cheering, chanting the phrase with her not once, not twice, but three times, each repetition louder, more fervent, more desperate. The entire empire seemed to quake with unity.

With a deft flick of her fingers, Lionella summoned a crimson hue that poured from her palms like liquid flame, swirling through the air and blanketing the people in its warm, pulsating glow.

The light was strangely serene, calming as it passed over their skin. The rough and weary felt soothed, the hungry forgot their gnawing bellies. Magic, thick and ancient, whispered through the veins of the city. Lionella’s red spirit responded to her belief.

“Trust. Relations. Love. Will,” she said, her voice steadier now, steeped in reverence. “All come from the true wish to have peace. That is my belief.”

She raised her hand toward the sky, and the red light bloomed like roses before bursting into fragments—sparkling above like silent firecrackers.

“And my red spirit light—the power of enchantment—helps me hold onto this belief, even when darkness threatens. Let us love each other. Let us help each other. Let us continue keeping this Empire the magical wonderland it is today.”

The crowd stood captivated. As the light faded, Lionella gave her final vow.

“I pledge my oath to help this empire grow. Together.”

Applause thundered around her. Her boots echoed as she stepped back, her expression calm but triumphant.

And then came the final contender.

A hollow wind passed. The sky above flickered with shadows.

Frina Vinford stepped forward.

No smile adorned her lips. No grandeur accompanied her steps. A dark cyan hue engulfed the balcony, rolling over the arena like smoke from a dying star. A shiver crept into the crowd’s bones. Something cold coiled in the pit of their stomachs, and yet they cheered—cheered as though possessed.

She stopped near the edge, one hand resting on the rail like a queen on her throne, the other holding a black lacquered hand fan delicately below her chin. Her eyes—a piercing, unreadable shade—moved slowly, scanning the crowd. Every soul felt her gaze, as though she peered into their secrets.

“I am Frina Vinford.”

The words were soft, but they slithered into every ear with haunting clarity.

“And I pledge my oath to safeguard this empire... with everything I possess.”

Her hand tightened around the fan.

“My power—the Cyan Light—will lull our enemies into stillness. Drowsiness. A clouded mind cannot wage war. A weak will cannot lift a sword.”

The cyan light thickened, pressing against the lungs of the crowd like deep water. People swayed, lulled into quiet serenity, unsure whether they wanted to sleep or submit.

“A strong leader,” she continued, her voice a whisper and a blade, “is one who fends their people.”

She snapped her fan shut.

With that motion, the hue vanished. The suffocating heaviness lifted. The air tasted real again. The cheers returned louder than ever, as though the people had awoken from a shared trance.

Frina smiled—not kindly, but knowingly.

“Let’s choose the right contender,” she said. “And let us keep our glory.”

She bowed her head slightly, never breaking eye contact with the crowd, then turned.

As she walked back to her place, her eyes flicked toward Sterlla, who stood among the other nobles. Their eyes met, and Frina gave her a small, elegant wink. It was both a challenge and a comfort.

Sterlla sighed inwardly, her lips curling into a faint smile. It was going to be a long rite.

And thus, the first day of the Crown Accession Rite came to its close.
The night sky bore silent witness— six lights, six truths, and one empire waiting to decide.